


The Pilgrim to Megrim

by heelofpatroclus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Migraine, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-11-22 11:19:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11379129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heelofpatroclus/pseuds/heelofpatroclus
Summary: Mycroft lost a bet, so he had to venture out into Greater London on footwork. On his way back to the office, a growing storm is rising in his mind and body. Whatever will he do? And why is Greg Lestrade fussing so much over it?





	1. All Because of a Bet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lavender_and_Vanilla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavender_and_Vanilla/gifts).



> For those of us with migraines, please be forewarned that I'm writing from the POV of Mycroft with a migraine. I get them, and I channeled the feelings I could think of, as well as of people I know, to write this. Three cups of coffee while editing this chapter...
> 
> This started out as a prompt from Lavender_and_Vanilla and kind of ballooned from there. She's been kindly enough to give advice and put up with my rambling. So much rambling...

The bus was crowded, and the beat of everyday life bustled about Mycroft Holmes and pounded in his ears. The faint smell of tar clung to the rough work shirt he was wearing, and he was sure that there was new asphalt scuffing the soles of his boots. The final insult was the fact that he was wearing uncomfortably tight jeans, to him at least. Anyone else would say they simply fit him.

Nothing about the outfit felt right—he was posing as some sort of blue collar worker. Just a touch of careful makeup to hide his pallor, and there was some greasy pomade slicking back his hair. Everything clashed, so he hoped that no one would see him until after he had changed back into his suit in his office.

Legwork was not his milieu, as he often liked to say, but he had lost a bet.

And now, he was trapped in the center of a crowded bus during the lunch rush hour—the miasma of everyday life invading every sense, the many people touching him. Everyone oblivious to him as they went about their business, his foot occasionally being stepped on by some unnoticing person. Mixed with the multitude of body odors was the cover of cheap perfume and aftershave. There hadn’t been space for him to sit, so he stood in the fray of undulating bodies that knocked into him and pushed him whenever there was a bump or a tight turn. He’d swear that the old woman passing him by as she hobbled off had pinched his arse.

It had started with pain in his right jaw – where his wisdom teeth had been– the muscles tensing and tingling. The surgeon had confirmed that there was no reason for worry when he’d had his last root canal, but it didn’t change the fact it still felt _wrong_ whenever this happened. It was his warning that the chain reaction of a migraine had started, and his stomach tightened with the first stirrings of nausea when he remembered the only Migraleve he had left was at his flat. He’d taken the last of it at the turn of spring. The joys of allergies and the changing of seasons to set off blooming grasses, flowers, and trees with the humidity to hold it all in the air.

Slowly, but surely, the sensation had spread up his cheekbone until it settled for a little while, luring him into a false sense of ease. He leaned on the arm gripping the bar above his head tightly to look around the person beside him to look out the window without having to actually move. At least he was almost at his stop.

It was when he had identified things he didn’t want to think or know about strangers simply by sense of smell that he knew the air pressure was changing. Nothing more than a light rain. He sagged against his extended arm this time because his umbrella in the office for the sake of the meeting. The rain coupled with the bus, the asphalt, the greenery, and the fact he hadn’t stopped to eat since breakfast all came to bash him over the head from the shadows.

Next, din of regular life around Mycroft went from pounding in his ears to stabbing his ear drums like icicles shredding through his nerves. Automatically, he shifted his hand to reach for an open strap as he moved slowly closer to the door. He tightened his grip on the strap to be able to shift his weight off his right shoulder some, looking from the window down to the floor before finally closing his eyes.

After what seemed like an eternity, his stop was finally called. It was two stops before the one he _wanted_ to use, but he couldn’t get back too close to Whitehall. As it was, he would have to go back through the old tunnels of an adjacent building to make it back to his office. He ducked into an alleyway, his hands in his pockets, glancing up at a CC-tv camera before ducking into an ajar side door and firmly shutting it behind him. Mycroft slowly walked down the long flight of stairs, gripping the metal railing until his knuckles were white.

A vague feeling of nausea pulsed through him when he hit the tunnels – they’d been recently cleaned with bleach. The smell was heavy and almost sweet, but it burned at the same time. His head throbbed to the beat of his heart. After a few breaths, any memory of the smells on the bus had been replaced with a vaguely heady rush.

The muscles in his neck tightened with every step through the corridor, but as he moved silently from one hallway to another, only his boots clapping against the ground. As he crisscrossed under the buildings, the smell of the bleach lessened, only to be replaced by the smell of wet rock and mold. His right hand trailing lightly along the wall of the tunnel, Mycroft’s fingertips just barely brushed against the rough concrete. It reminded him that the wall was there if he needed it to steady himself.

Each step through the tunnel echoed down the tunnel itself as well as reverberating in his head, his mind amplifying the sound so that it felt like the echoes were drumming on his skull. The warm, tingling came to the forefront of his mind again, much like a person stepping out of the mist into view. This time, it was accompanied by a dull, diffuse ache behind his right eye. When he was far enough from the competing smells of bleach and mold, Mycroft stopped to take a breath and lean his head against the wall. He closed his eyes and focused on the tenseness in his neck, massaging the back of his neck because, for a moment, he thought that might help.

The rough wall against his forehead was cool, and the bureaucrat willed the cool to seep into his face to ease the heat making his right eye burn. The ringing of a phone startled him out of his internal reverie. He pulled the unfamiliar phone out of the tight front pocket of his jeans and flipped it open. “Yes?” His voice was cool and collected as ever when he took a step back away from the wall.

“Where are you? I had expected—“ Her voice on the phone’s speaker was louder and tinnier than he had expected.

“My dear, I am returning as we speak. I will be there shortly.”

He disconnected the call before she had a chance to respond.

Though he looked back at the wall in front of him longingly, Mycroft squared his shoulders and tried to briskly walk back to his office’s hallway. By the time that he had made it back, however, Mycroft’s head felt like lead upon his shoulders and his steps zigged and zagged. Anthea was waiting for him with a clothing bag containing a fresh suit. He took them from her with a muttered thank you before disappearing behind the mirror to the left of his desk, which hid a small lavatory.

She was still waiting for him when he stepped back out. He looked at himself in the full-length mirror after gently pushing it closed, slicking back slightly damp hair. “Was your… trip uneventful, sir?”

There was a pause before he responded. “Yes.” His voice was even, but the smile on his face was thin and tight and didn’t reach his eyes. “A good reminder to not make bets with Sir Edwin next time.”

“Is there anything you need before I head home?”

“Just clear my schedule tomorrow…” He took a deep breath. “I need time to handle the information gained today—privately.”

“Of course.” She turned to walk away, but stopped. “If Sir Edwin asks for your report, sir?”

“Ah, tell him I am,” Mycroft paused to lean against his desk, leaning his head against the heel of his right hand as if to think. “Verifying the information given before sharing.”

Anthea nodded once, and her heels clicked as she continued to walk out of the office, closing the door softly behind her.

As soon as she had left the room, his shoulders slumped and he leaned more heavily against his desk as he rubbed at his eyes. Finally, he stood straight again and walked slowly around his desk to pull out his phone from the drawer. He had left the burner in the lavatory with the clothes—Anthea would likely deal with his disguise after he left. He had quit asking ages ago. It only took a moment for him to call for a car to pick him up, but there would be a ten-minute wait.

Normally, he’d continue working until a bit before the car showed up, so he wasn’t waiting outside, but he didn’t want to take any chances with the stairs. He knew that both the movement and the act of going upstairs would make his head pound ever harder and more frequently.

Apparently, there were new interns in the main offices upstairs – he could smell an unfamiliar perfume, cheap and vanilla-based as he walked through the upstairs corridors. His lip curled slightly as he kept trudging to the main doors, and he immediately was squinting upon opening them. In the early afternoon, the intensity of the sun shot through his right eye like a spear.

The air was heavy with the smell of rain and the acidic undertones of diesel fuel—the storm hadn’t abated yet, and it seemed with every passing minute that Mycroft’s head throbbed more. A few birds were chittering in a small cluster of dwarf trees. He had to side step a few small puddles to safeguard his patent leather soles. Only the familiar weight of the umbrella in his hand gave him a small measure of comfort. As he approached the curb, Mycroft spotted the town car a moment slower than he’d have preferred. He had looked at it, but for just a second, there was no recognition that it was what he had been looking for.

Sighing, he pulled the door open and slid into the backseat. The driver only had to tilt his head in Mycroft’s direction after the door closed for Mycroft to say, “My flat, please, Louis. And if we could avoid the potholes, I’d be much… obliged.”

The driver inclined his head before pulling back onto the street. He was always thankful for the smooth ride the town cars provided, but he had to resist the urge to rest his head against the glass of the window as they drove. The backseat was about the worst place that he could sit under the circumstances. The nausea returned with a passion, and there were the remnants of overly strong cologne from the last rider. Mercifully, Louis did as asked and tried to avoid the roads with the worst potholes, but that made for a more circuitous route. Even at the low speeds, Mycroft’s stomach lurched at every turn.

When they’d finally arrived at his flat, Mycroft managed a polite thank you before stumbling out of the back of the car. After he’d taken a few steps, the car pulled away, and he was left leaning heavily on his umbrella. Times like these, he was thankful that his building had an elevator. He lived on the eighth floor. Though, if he ever moved again, he was taking a flat closer to the lift. His hands felt clumsy and heavy when he tried to fit the key into the lock, and it took several tries before he managed to push the key into the lock.

He pushed a little too hard on the door to close it and jumped a little at the slam. There was a click of the lock as he turned the bolt. Mycroft’s usual routine was burnt into the back of his mind, and he did it without having to think about it: the umbrella went in the basket, the briefcase on the small table, his shoes on the mat.

Although he loosened his tie and unbuttoned the first button on his shirt, Mycroft didn’t do more than that as he slowly made his way to his bathroom and almost stumbled into the post of the bathroom door. Through the growing haze and fog, his mind repeated ‘two pink now… two yellow if doesn’t take’ until he was holding what he was looking for, his mind acting separately from his body at this point. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he swallowed the two tablets dry, but the other hand grasped the bowl of the sink tightly to maintain his precarious balance from the roll of nausea caused by the act of taking the medicine at all.

When the brunt of the nausea had settled and his head felt just a tad steadier, Mycroft left the bathroom, forgetting to flick the light switch back off. The only thing on his mind was the darkness of his bedroom, and drawing the black-out curtains before collapsing on his bed and trying to will himself unconscious.


	2. Complete Vulnerability

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has a difficult time when he wakes up--his migraine not having left him yet. His anxiety has been piqued because something is in his bedroom with him, and last he remembered, the bureaucrat was alone.

The first thing Mycroft felt when conscious slowly threw him back into the land of wakefulness was pain—throbbing, intense, stabbing pain. His entire world had been relegated to a single point, and his head and neck felt about three times too large, even lying down on a pillow. Searing pain radiated out from behind his eye, and behind the haze and mist that shrouded his mind, Mycroft wasn’t conscious of anything else. Everything was muddled and fuzzy—he knew better than to open his eyes. There was a buzzing in his ears, low and droning on. He thought that somehow a fly had managed to invade the flat. A bowl of fruit must have been left out or Greg had a cookery experiment hidden away in the cupboards somewhere.

But when the bureaucrat reached a hand out from under his pillow to swat the thing away, he slapped something much larger and more bristly than a fruit fly. However, it at least made the droning stop. A cool hand covered Mycroft’s so as to hold it in place, the splayed-out fingers rough and calloused against the soft back of his hand.

Mycroft instinctively sat up, only because he hadn’t been expecting anyone around. He immediately regretted opening his eyes, his eyes recoiling from the sudden change in light by squinting almost shut. As a tide of dizziness came over him, his foggy mind supplied thoughts of kidnap or ransom or a slow, vengeful murder.

For just a moment, the bright light from the ceiling would seem to confirm that, and another stab of pain shot through Mycroft’s head. He felt a bit woozy at the shift in position. The room was too hot, and his suit felt too tight and constricting. He could feel the anxiety flow through him at the rush of possibilities of what all was going on, and he took a shaky breath to try and steady himself.

The droning voice was back, the words rough and punctuated as they pierced through the fog. Sluggishly, he coaxed himself to relax and actually open his eyes to actually look at his surroundings. Relief flooded through him when the overly close face of his partner slowly swam into view. Grey hair, peppered with flecks of white, a bit of black still showing at the nape of his neck. There were dark smudges under Greg’s eyes, and Mycroft finally recognized the bristly feeling as the stubble of someone who hadn’t shaved that day.

The hand holding Mycroft’s against the bristly cheek squeezed gently to remind him it was still there, the thumb grazing occasionally against the back of his hand as it traced lazy circles. “You OK? By all rights you were dead to the world.”

Greg was looking at him peculiarly by the time Mycroft’d had time to process the words. As he was thinking, Mycroft pulled back his hand from Greg’s face to cover his right eye before collapsing heavily back against the pillow. “Just tired—bit too much…legwork—A head-ache is all.” His eyes fluttered shut of their own accord as he ground the heel of his hand into the corner of his eye. “Could you, ah… turn the light off?”

An affirmative sounding ‘mmm’ was the only response he heard, but the bed shifted, and soon he heard the soft flick of the switch. The lifting of pain in his eyes from the light was immediate. Even with his eyes closed, it made a difference to encase the room in darkness again. There was a metallic click to Mycroft’s left, from Greg’s side of the bed—likely the table lamp on the nightstand had been turned on so the other man could at least see.

The bed dipped again and creaked a little before he felt a hand massaging his temple tenderly before it pulled away. Mycroft felt a hand glide down his cheek and then over the base of his neck, along the top of the manubrium, before it moved down to pull at his now wrinkled tie. The hinge of the tie pin creaked and there was a metallic click just after—Mycroft kept his eyes closed, but he imagined Greg had set the pin on the nightstand. After a bit of grumbling from the inspector, while Greg seemed to fight with the knot from the way the tie shook and shimmied back and forth, Mycroft felt the tie slip from around his neck.

“I’ll be right back, Myc.” The words were a whisper right next to his ear, and Mycroft could feel the warm breath on his neck. Before he could turn his head towards the voice, the bed dipped before springing back as the weight lifted and socked feet padded away.

However, sleep was overcoming him again, so Mycroft didn’t think much about the whole thing as he rolled over onto his right side and freed his arm by burying his face in his pillow. Although he didn’t fall back to sleep, the man drifted in and out of consciousness. The pain drove sleep from him whenever his mind tried to retreat into its darkness.

So, he wasn’t particularly aware of the clink of a glass against metal on a nightstand or the very slow dip on his side of the bed, close to his head. However, he was aware of a chilly hand hovering near his neck, ice crackling occasionally near his ear. “There was an icepack in the freezer—thought it might help. And some of the yellow pills from the box—said to take two. Figured you took the pink since their wrapper was sitting open in the bathroom.”

Mycroft’s brow furrowed half into the pillow even as he tried to push himself further into the pillow away from Greg. His voice was tight when he finally responded. “You shouldn’… thank you. Just—“ the pause practically crackled with an intensity of uncertainty and vague confusion. “Lay it on my neck, will you?”

The bureaucrat could tell when the icepack had been lain on his neck by the slight cold and weight on his neck, but it wasn’t enough with the cotton towel that he could feel separating the cold from his skin. He practically moaned in relief as he reached up with a hand to rip the towel away, irritably throwing it off the bed. The icy cold bit into the sensitive skin of his neck and cleared a bit of the haze and pain away as though the ice could simply tame the fire flowing in his veins.

If a mattress could shift in a vaguely uncomfortable manner, then Mycroft thought this one did as he groaned in relief. Distantly, his thoughts continued to tell him that it was obscene to be so happy, but the pain had even consumed Mycroft’s composure. He was in the privacy of his bedroom, after all. With a heavy sigh, having taken a deep breath as if that would help, Mycroft dragged the ice pack away from his neck as he rolled onto his back. Now, he draped it the gelatinous mass diagonally across the right side of his face, covering the affected eye.

The haze seemed to come away as the icy feeling seeped into the skin around his eye and numbed some of the pain. As his mind cleared, some of Mycroft’s usual decorum and need for discretion returned. This was not something that he wanted exploited, not even by Sherlock. He opened his uncovered left eye, shifting slightly so he could look at Greg in the low-light. “I apol—“ Mycroft paused a moment as he looked over the familiar white shirt and black trousers Greg wore to work, his brow furrowing momentarily in confusion. “Did I, ah… forget an evening in?”

“No…”

All of the sudden, the hands were back at Mycroft’s shoulders, this time pushing back the suit jacket back off them. “Left my coat this morning, and I was going to go to the pub and have a night with the fellas from work. Figured I’d better grab it first rather than freeze walking home.” First Greg eased the left sleeve off. “I was just going to pop in and out—figured you wouldn’t be home yet—but I saw your umbrella and shoes.” Then he lifted Mycroft’s shoulder just a bit to be able to slide the rest of the jacket off and out from underneath Mycroft.

Somewhere between the point the ice had started to numb his face and the low drone of Greg talking, Mycroft’s eye had drifted shut again and he hovered in the liminal space of wakefulness and sleep.

“Better, yeah?” Greg’s hand lightly shook Mycroft’s shoulder when there was no response. The eye fluttered open again in response.

“Mmm, better.” Mycroft let the icepack slide off his face and onto the pillow as he sat up on his elbows before leaning back against the headboard. “You… mentioned medication, Gregory?”

Greg’s face seemed almost a blur to Mycroft as a range of emotions flew across it. And then, the inspector was turning around to snag the juice and the yellow pills up off the nightstand on Mycroft’s side. A hopeful smile crept across the man’s face as he gave Mycroft the medicine and glass. “Mum always said a bit of sugar helped these. You had some cranberry juice in the fridge.”

Rather than take the medicine dry, this time Mycroft took a small sip of the juice before downing the pills, drinking the rest afterwards. Greg had only filled the glass a third of the way. The juice was still cool, and tasted heavenly if only because he was parched and it was sweet and fluid. The haze was creeping back over his consciousness without the ice to act as a buffer. When Mycroft just stared at the glass like he’d never seen one before, a tender yet firm hand took it from him and set it back on the nightstand, dragging him back to reality.

“Why are you still…” There was a hesitancy in Mycroft’s voice that had nothing to do with the pain. He looked at Greg’s inscrutable expression a moment before trying again. “Why are you not off to the pub now, instead of here playing nursemaid?” Mycroft reached up to cradle his eye again with the heel of his right hand.

“God, Mycroft,” Greg sighed heavily. “I can go to the pub any free night, but you needing me right now is more important.” His grin was rakish but full of love as he slid his legs onto the bed so he could recline, Mycroft sliding over enough to accommodate him. “And a hell of a lot rarer.” The usual eyebrow-raise and droll statement didn’t come, but Greg’s smile grew wider at Mycroft’s reddening ears.

When Mycroft lowered his gaze to his lap as his face reddened as well, he made an irritable sound as his eye caught the golden glint of his pocket-watch chain. He carefully fished the pocket watch out of the waistcoat pocket, unlatching it from the button before setting it on the nightstand on his side of the bed.

“Might I ask a small favor then?”

“Probably do ya a large one even, love.” Apart from Mycroft’s ears turning a darker shade of red, he didn’t show much more embarrassment. The bureaucrat’s eyes were growing glassy again, and his pupils were dilated and unfocused. “Mycroft?”

A small cough came as Mycroft’s eyes focused on Greg’s face finally. “Could you assist me… with the buttons?” Mycroft gestured vaguely towards his waistcoat before flexing his hands and leaning heavily against the headboard.

The crow’s feet at the corner of the inspector’s eyes seemed to grow deeper even as his smile seemed to grow softer. Leaning down to kiss the younger man’s forehead at the tip of the widow’s peak, Greg’s hands easily popped the buttons one by one. Mycroft shifted so as to accommodate Greg as he slid the vest off one arm then the other. Greg’s eyes looked from one end of the bed to the other, Mycroft watching as he did. Greg may have left Mycroft’s wrinkled suit jacket on the floor next to the bed, and it took every bit of memory on how much pain there’d be for Mycroft to not race off the bed and hang everything up properly. As it was, Anthea would have to have them sent off again for a good pressing because of his falling asleep in them.

“Just keep everything… together, if you would.” Apart from a few gravelly cracks, Mycroft’s voice sounded rather normal. He knew that this was an ebb in the pain, likely to be followed by a rise in pain later unless the migraine broke in the meantime.

His cufflinks were easy to remove—a couple quick turns of the wrist and they were off. Then, he slid the sleeve garters off one at a time. Finally, Mycroft stretched his arm out to set them next to the pocket watch as Greg was popping the buttons of his shirt. ‘Movement, followed by a break,’ Mycroft’s mind chanted to him. So, he leaned back and closed his eyes again while Greg pulled the shirt tails out to pop the last buttons.

Greg’s hands skimmed lightly over Mycroft’s upper back as he helped the younger man slide the shirt off his shoulders. Before Mycroft could change his mind, Greg had dropped the shirt and waistcoat on top of the jacket on the floor. Then, as an attempt to make sure that the topic wasn’t coming up again, Greg took advantage of the slight shift in Mycroft’s position to start kneading at the tense shoulders and neck.

“Are the pills helping?”

The only response was a positive ‘hm’ that grew stronger when he pressed at a particularly tight spot at the junction of shoulder and neck. Mycroft groaned as Greg dug his thumb into the tense muscle and pressed along it going from shoulder to neck and back. There was an audible pop along finally, and Mycroft moaned in response as he slumped back against Greg’s shoulder before leaning back against the headboard, some of the tension leaving his face as he closed his eyes.

“Yes, finally. Could I trouble you for more of the cranberry juice?”

“’Course you can. I’ll just grab me a beer while I’m at it, and we’ll relax.” Just from the tone of voice, Mycroft could hear some relief and gladness, and at least in his mind’s eye Greg was clicking his heels together as he made his way back to the kitchen. A pleasant thought out of a very long day, at least. When he leaned back and tried to stretch his legs, Mycroft remembered that he had yet to take off his trousers and socks. The garters that kept the socks taut prevented him from stretching his calves comfortably.

His hands weren’t so clumsy that he couldn’t work a button and a zip, so the trousers weren’t overly difficult to take off. However, he needed to sit up and lean over to see the straps of the sock garters in the low light as well as reach them.

These garters had been a present from Sherlock—one that likely hadn’t been intended as more than a bad gag, but they were still from his little brother, so he’d kept them. They had vertical stripes of every color of the rainbow, repeating the whole way around the band. They rather clashed with his deep red socks, but that was part of the fun of wearing them. No one else needed know, so he could do as he liked.

After sitting completely upright, Mycroft had taken a moment to just breathe through the wave of dizziness that had washed over him. The pain was subsiding from the amount of pain reliever he had taken. However, the pain relievers really only masked what was actually happening. Mycroft had rather hoped to be back under the sheet by the time that Greg had returned, so as to preserve some semblance of dignity when he was feeling so vulnerable and exposed. However, he heard the clinking of ice before he saw the silver hair come through the bedroom door as he was still unhooking the garters to loosen his socks.

“Mycroft!” Greg’s eyes had washed from head to toe of the younger man as he stopped and looked at him from the doorway. Mycroft was clad at this point in black boxers, red socks, and rainbow garters. The bureaucrat only spared his partner a bare glance as he continued his task.

“What? You’re not the one that cannot…” Mycroft trailed off as Greg started laughing while he walked closer to the bed.

“I can’t believe you kept those!” He pointed to the sock garters with his beer before he sat down at the edge of the bed on Mycroft’s side, holding the glass for Mycroft in his left hand as he watched Mycroft finish unlatching the garters and pulling the clips off the socks themselves.

“They were from Sherlock!” Came an indignant grumble from the eldest Holmes.

One of Greg’s eyebrows twitched, but he didn’t say anything more. His eyes were occasionally trailing up the toned legs to where they disappeared into the legs of his boxers. Nevertheless, the inspector deliberately dragged his gaze back towards his knees to watch Mycroft pull off each sock. The garters soon joined the cufflinks on the nightstand, while the socks were relegated to the floor with a resigned sigh from Mycroft. After Mycroft had covered himself with the sheet and relaxed against the pillows again, the inspector held out the half-glass of cranberry juice—with ice this time— to him.

“Actually, love,” Greg started as Mycroft started sipping at the fruit juice. “Sherlock wanted to get you the ones with the pirates and hearts. I managed to talk him into something… _less_ garish? He wouldn’t settle on anything less than ‘completely undignified’.”

Regardless of how the rest of the day had gone, Mycroft hoped that they could relax tonight and sleep late the next morning since his partner had volunteered to stay with him. Greg had plenty of sick days, and a lot of good will by the name of ‘Sherlock’. Mycroft’s mind was coming up with plenty of ways make up for taking up Greg’s pub night. Though, Greg loved the chance to take care of Mycroft just as much, so it wasn’t something that Mycroft needed to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Think of this like a roller coaster... first we have to go up, terrified of reaching the pinnacle, so we can get that rush of adrenaline going down.
> 
> This section was the hardest for me to write and edit, as this is the hardest part for me to think about. I thought I'd never finish editing this section, and it's been driving me nuts. Hopefully, I didn't go purple with prose and detail, but I think all four of the sections I've had migraines at some point during the writing of / editing of, so I have a tendency to just leave out things because I won't notice I didn't type them... makes for fun editing when you don't remember having written it, but the scene's in your head.
> 
> This is also the longest story I've written in eons...
> 
> Let me know what you think! (And happy 4th to my fellow Americans...)


	3. Stab Through the Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after. Mycroft's mind plays rather nasty tricks on him, and Greg just wants a kiss. What's a little morning breath between lovers anyway?

Waking up the next morning, Mycroft felt like he had to pull his mind out of a tar pit. The blackness of unconsciousness was so tempting; the cloying warmth of the blankets he was under was so relaxing; even the familiar, faint smell of eucalyptus on his pillow was comforting—they all tried to lull him back to sleep.

The first thing he was conscious of was the lack of pain. However, a close second was his full bladder. He slid out of bed still half-asleep, not noticing the large lump that was keeping the bed warm under the covers, silver hair barely visible at the junction of blanket and pillow. Mycroft knew his flat well enough to navigate in the dark, so he had no trouble just walking to the lavatory without turning any lights on. A few minutes later, he was stumbling back out, feeling much better. He’d also taken the time to brush his teeth as he’d apparently neglected to the night before.

Mycroft stepped on the edge of his suit jacket as he padded back to his bed. Although he frowned slightly down at the pile of clothes as he tried to remember what had happened the previous night, he didn’t dwell on it long. However, sliding into bed startled him—he had to bite back a strangled, dismayed cry when suddenly an arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer. Realization sunk in before he woke the other man in the bed in his momentary fright.

There was the familiar, lingering smell of cheap deodorant and aftershave. The large, calloused hands that wrapped themselves around him at shoulder and hip in the same places they always did when Greg was still asleep. Most importantly, the fact that the fingers were trying to burrow just under the waistband of his boxers to rub at the hip bone. Unless there was some sudden great plot against Mycroft that had cameras in places that they should not ever be, not even Sherlock could deduce the meaning of intimate touches between the two lovers. Simple little things like fingers grazing lightly over a shoulder or leaning heads together while they watched a movie on the couch—things that didn’t matter to anyone else.

It was still early, and he was still tired, so Mycroft allowed himself to melt into the touch. His eyes were fluttering shut even before his head lolled back against the pillow.

A bristly cheek settled in against the crook of his neck, a few sloppy kisses placed there before the arm tightened around Mycroft’s shoulder with a snore. Even half-asleep, the tips of the fingers kept rubbing figure-eights on the hip bone they were resting on. It wasn’t long before Mycroft had been lulled back to sleep by the warmth, the comfort, and the sheer fact it was still early.

There wasn’t really any way for Mycroft to know how long he had dozed when he opened his eyes again. However, his head was clear, and he was awake this time. Finally growing restless after lying there a little longer, Mycroft rolled over so he and Greg were lying face to face.

He couldn’t remember how they’d ended up this way. Mycroft’s brow furrowed when he tried to remember how they’d ended up entangled. After a few moments of trying to sift through his thoughts, Mycroft admitted to himself that he didn’t even remember a good majority of the day before. It was as though a miasma had spread through his mind and erased swathes of the day before, leaving the rest encased in a thick, foggy haze. There were fragments—a piece of conversation here, an image of whatever was going on there—sometimes he felt like he was watching a video of a brief moment. Again, he fell asleep as he tried to think about the day before.

The next time that Mycroft opened his eyes, silver hair was tickling his forehead. By this point, they were entirely on the left side of the bed, sharing a pillow, and Mycroft touched his cheek where it met pillow so as to wipe away a bit of drool. The hand on his hip was still there, but it was tighter than he’d remembered it being earlier. Also, the snoring wasn’t the familiar, almost droning sound he’d grown accustomed to over the months that they’d been together.

Something just didn’t feel right.

“I know you are awake, Gregory.” The bureaucrat’s voice was low and gravelly after having slept so long. His throat was a bit dry.

The hand on Mycroft’s hip drifted back to settle on the firm muscles of his rear, giving it a quick grab before pulling them closer as he stretched with a deep groan. Greg gave him a lazy smile before he whispered, “Mmm, yeah. Just a while.”

“And you just laid there while I slept.”

“You looked so peaceful and relaxed…couldn’t bring myself t’wake you.” Mycroft pulled back his head before Greg could tilt his head and kiss him. “Wha’? Can’t a fella’ get a kiss g’mornin’?” There was a heavy yawn, leading to another stretch that allowed Mycroft a moment to scoot back to his side of the bed as Greg stretched his arms behind his head.

“Not until you’ve brushed your teeth—I imagine the dead have better breath than you, at times.” When Greg turned the switch for the nightstand lamp, Mycroft covered his still sensitive eyes in the crook of his elbow and rolled onto his back.

It was at that moment everything clicked into place in the bureaucrat’s mind—the sensitivity, the fact his head felt so clear, no alarm clock at five o’clock, and his lack of memory about the day before. A sense of utter dread passed through Mycroft’s heart, piercing it like a dull knife.

Anthea knew, but there was an unspoken agreement that they not speak of the attacks, infrequent as they were. Sherlock didn’t care, and Mycroft never wanted to deal with his mother simpering about how ‘everyone gets headaches now and again’ and to just ignore it again. He had just hoped that he wouldn’t ever have to bring it up with Greg—just sleep it off if one occurred and not deal with the pity or irritation at his incapacity.

Although there was an indignant harrumph, the bed bounced a little and the sheets fluttered before he felt the mattress dip and bounce back. Heels pounded against the floor, slowly growing somewhat fainter. The lavatory door slammed, and sometime later there was a metallic clanking before the water ran for a few seconds. Mycroft tried to ignore the sounds of his partner as he peeked out from under his arm for a few moments to allow his eyes to adjust to the light. The water was running again along with the sound of exaggerated gargling before the door opened and the feet came pounding back.

Mycroft practically jumped when the bed shook like a wave as Greg jumped back into the large bed. As it was, Mycroft barely had time to move his arm away from his face before Greg planted a quick, teasing kiss. Before Mycroft had time to process the past few seconds, Greg was rolling away to scramble back under the sheet and blankets, pulling them away from Mycroft’s half of the bed to make a sort of nest.

Mycroft grumbled, curling up to hide his face underneath his pillow as he tried to drag back at least some of the sheet for himself. After a bit of tugging, the sheet slackened enough for him to at least have enough to cover himself. “I’d say you’re acting like a dog, but at least you didn’t drool on me.”

Greg’s tone was light and playful in response. “More like ‘rude and randy’ as you so thoughtfully scolded me _last weekend_ when your nose was buried in paperwork.” The blankets were being thrown off again by the inspector in a surge of energy. “Anyway, it’s after nine-thirty – I’ve normally had my third cup of bad coffee by now.”

“Still—too cheerful. Do you…’flip a switch’ for that or does it come naturally to you?” There was a vaguely irritated-sounding mumble in response, though Mycroft felt a fingers brush over his forearm on top of the pillow.

“Just used to running about whether I want or not by now.” A kiss was pressed to Mycroft’s bare shoulder before the bed dipped again with a bit more force than required. “Still out of food and coffee, _Mikey_?”

Although muffled by the pillow, the irritation was palpable in Mycroft’s voice. “Do I look as though I have suddenly gained the desire to cook between international incidents or dealing with the messes that are politics and my family?” There was a reply from Greg, but Mycroft didn’t listen to it. The switch of the lamp clicked again before the pounding of heels against the wood floor.

Mycroft focused on taking deep breaths in and out, trying to will down the irritation and unease he felt at Greg’s complete lack of acknowledgement of the incapacity, and it wasn’t long before he’d drifted back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, not too much to say. Uberly busy week with the two days off. Next chapter we get the wrap-up!
> 
> Let me know what you think as this was incredibly difficult as I'm horrible with people and all that jazz.


	4. A Voice to His Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's up and about and it's time for breakfast -- wait a minute, why is he in only his boxers with clothes everywhere? And why is there the delightful smell of... crap, someone's making breakfast.
> 
> What happens after Mycroft finally gets out of bed? Find out in the emotional conclusion.

The first thing that Mycroft was aware of was the heavy smell of coffee. Above its earthy ambrosia was the sweet smell of raspberry, and he could hear the sizzle of a hot pan. As he tried to remember the last thing that he’d eaten the day before, Mycroft’s stomach sank when he realized that he couldn’t. As he thought of the day before, pictures ran in his mind of snippets of time—and none of it involved food—out of focus and distorted like someone had taken them in a heavy rain.

There had been cranberry juice—he recalled drinking that—and the smell of dark beer. The dull feeling of nausea churning. Everything was coated in, what Mycroft’s mind told itself was pain, but he just felt a vague memory that it had been there, rather than the sensation itself. His memory clashed with reality, the smell of body odor and cheap perfume trying to rise up to overwhelm the smell of coffee and fresh fruit. But, as his mind kept spinning back through the snippets of the day before, the weight of reality overcame the recollections of them. At least he was thinking again—everything was moving and felt familiar, the sense of being stuck he remembered was gone.

The smell only grew a bit stronger and more complex as the man emerged from beneath his pillow. The blackout curtains alone had been drawn back, with the lighter curtains still covering the window, so sunlight only snuck into the room through the gaps in the tight weave of the fabric and the cracks at the sides of the curtains. Greg had been here earlier, the smell of the man still clung to the pillow. Maybe it had all been a memory—the bed was askew, but Greg’s side of the bed was cool to the touch. It couldn’t have been a memory, however, because the smell of coffee had to have been brought about by the making of coffee.

He knew he wouldn’t let anyone but Greg or Sherlock (and John by-proxy) into this flat, but his stomach still churned with anxiety at the thought of someone else in the flat. They could have been compromised by Eurus without ever knowing that they were acting as a time bomb. Sherlock wouldn’t be cooking, unless it was a ‘research project’ – and then he’d probably be stewing shrunken heads in his only stock pot again. That left Greg. Even though there was a half-smile on his face, Mycroft still sighed heavily.

The reason this flat had a way to brew coffee at all was because Greg liked his coffee on the weekends. He liked it, sitting on the sofa, in a t-shirt and sweat pants without having to bother with people jostling him or the weather or anything until after he’d had time to enjoy the wonders of a simple cup of coffee that didn’t come from the office pot. Mycroft bought his espresso.

Finally, Mycroft sat up, slowly looking around the room while he leaned on his elbows. Cufflinks, garters, and pocket-watch were on his nightstand. There were clothes on the floor on both sides of the bed, though the pile on Greg’s side was larger. It looked like work clothes were rumpled on top of the detective inspector’s trench coat. Mycroft could remember an octopus draped around him. Though it obviously couldn’t be an octopus, or even a squid.

He peeked underneath the sheet covering him, and the boxers he was still wearing were the boxers he was expecting. Apart from his neck hurting, Mycroft didn’t feel like anything was out of sorts. Peeling back the sheet, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and just stared at his feet.

Sliding himself off the bed, he glanced one more time at the clothes on the floor with a sigh before padding over to stand in front of the mirror atop his antique dresser.

The first thing he noticed as he looked at himself in the mirror was the ever-growing widow’s peak because of his hair sticking up in several places and being matted down in the back. Kinky curls were visible at his forehead, around the backs of his ears, and as some little curls at the nape of his neck.

The next thing he noticed were the deep bags under his eyes, and the small wrinkles around his mouth and eyes. The face in the mirror frowned back at him, making his mouth turn down more until it was almost a grimace. He rubbed a hand over the ruddy beard growing in, scratching at a sideburn idly as his eyes traveled down to glare at the greying tuft of reddish-brown hair that trailed down from his breastbone. Only a bit of fat clung to his abdomen, not noticeable when he stretched to yawn. After cracking his neck several times, he ran a hand through his hair in an attempt to smooth out some of the curl as well as not have patches just standing on end.

After finishing preening at the mirror, Mycroft continued over to the small row of hooks by the bedroom door. His favorite brown silk bathrobe hung in its usual place on the hook second from the right. It had tiny grey dots to give it a bit of pattern, and it stopped just above his knees if he tied it loosely. Shrugging into the robe, Mycroft made his way out to the kitchen. He reached his hands above his head, stretching hand on elbow before switching so his back cracked.

The sliding door to the small deck was ajar, and two settings were already on the table. The closer Mycroft went to the bar separating the kitchen from the rest of the flat, the more his mouth watered. The smell of bread and cinnamon frying made his stomach rumble hungrily, overpowering both the raspberry scent now an undercurrent as well as his desire for coffee.

The architect of the simple, yet grand-smelling brunch was silver haired, wearing a pair of ratty, grey sweatpants with MET on the side in deep blue lettering, part of the fabric paint having worn off, and a grey t-shirt with holes around the collar. He had his back to the rest of the kitchen as he flipped French toast on a skillet.

“Good morning, Gregory,” Mycroft said quietly as he tied his robe shut. It wouldn’t do for some blackmailer or the neighbors to see him in a state of undress, after all.

The spatula raised in response to Mycroft’s greeting, but Greg didn’t respond further until after he’d flipped the toast on the skillet and slid it off onto the plate next to the stove. Turning the knob until it was completely off, Greg put the skillet on the back of the range away from where he’d been frying, finally turning around. His eyes trailed down for just a second before smiling at Mycroft.

“Afternoon, old man,” Greg’s grin was tired, yet relieved. “I’d hoped that some good food would wake you up. I was afraid I’d have to ring 999 if you weren’t up soonish.” Twisting around, the older man reached for the plate with one hand, and a cup of red syrup, a spoon handle sticking out of it, with the other. “Join me for brunch? Coffee’s already on the table.”

Mycroft just nodded once before following Greg out to the deck.

There was a small bowl of cut strawberries on the table as well as cream and coffee. The spread was small and unassuming, but fresh home-cooked food was just the comfort that made his stomach rumble. In addition to the one comfort Mycroft didn’t want to admit he needed—someone to tend to his needs and act as his rock amidst a tempest.

When Greg had set the plate and jug down on the table between them, he looked directly into his partner’s eyes.

For an instant, Mycroft held the gaze before turning to look over the deck’s railing at the horizon. The great city of London, bustling and busy below them, even as the men had time to pause and reflect. Taking a deep breath, Mycroft looked back at Greg even as he instinctively reached to his robe for the phone that wasn’t with him.

Greg gestured for the elder Holmes to take a seat, waiting for Mycroft to pick one before sitting himself. The plates were set directly on the glass top of the table, which had been freshly washed down there were only a few stubborn spots of grime and weather stuck to its top. Mycroft slid his napkin out from under the silverware, unfolding it to let it cover his mostly bare thighs as his robe rode up.

Picking up his fork and helping himself to a piece of French toast, Mycroft cleared his throat. “Thank you. There was no need to go to all this… trouble, Gregory.”

Greg grinned as he speared two pieces and plopped them on his plate, then reached for the cup to pour out some raspberry syrup and smear some of the raspberry mash on them.

“Nothing to it—we needed to eat after all. These are fun to make anyway. The messier they are, the better they taste.” He pointed a fork towards a particularly burnt spot on the side of Mycroft’s. “Plus, the burnt bits are the best. I made the syrup the way you liked it the last time. Little less water, and a bit more o’the raspberries.”

Holding a spoonful of strawberries over the bowl, before dumping them on top of his French toast, Mycroft licked his lips greedily when Greg mentioned the syrup. “I’m sure it’s splendid.” Another spoon of strawberries and he set the spoon back in the bowl. Next, he picked up the cup to pour some syrup over the whole thing. “Though, I still really don’t see a reason to fuss so.” Finally, he set down the cup, and picked up the steel carafe of coffee. A quick twist and he was pouring piping hot coffee into his mug.

“It’s not like I’ve better things to do. I begged off for the day, and anyway I was worried after last night.” Syrup ran down the side of the cup after Greg poured syrup onto his own stack of toast, and Mycroft’s eyes tracked after the bright, magenta line, about to reach out a hand to stop it before it reached the glass top of the table.

However, Greg swiped up the side of the cup, all of the sudden, making a distinctly happy sound as he licked the sweet syrup off his thumb before continuing the conversation as if it hadn’t stopped. “First you were out of it, then you were throwing up. And then, practically catatonic.”

“It was nothing, _dearest_. Just a bit of a headache.”

The tremor in Mycroft’s hands in the aftermath of the migraine was almost imperceptible when he poured a generous amount of cream into his coffee. There was a slightly sharp edge to it, with notes of oak and alcohol. He set the cream down, not looking at Greg as he completed his usual ritual of five swishes with the coffee spoon before clinking once on the edge by the handle and setting the spoon down on the coaster underneath the mug. He took a careful sip of the coffee, raising an eyebrow sharply when he finally looked up at the other man.

“Did you use the good whiskey again, Gregory?”

“No…” Greg said slowly even as he stuffed his mouth with a rather large forkful of French toast. Mycroft continued to sip suspiciously at his coffee while he waited for Greg to continue. “After last time, I hid the good stuff in your study, so I didn’t confuse ‘em. 200 quid for a bottle of whiskey though—“

“Meant to be sipped over an evening, not used in your… cookery experiments.”

“You like my ‘cookery experiments’!”

“Not at that price.”

“Then, I’ll just bring over the rotgut that we confiscate next time!” Though there was an edge to the voice, there was an invitation as well. A glint was in Greg’s eye even as he huffed.

“You used the Balvenie again.” Even irritated, Mycroft couldn’t help but enjoy the smooth flavor and the subtle bite of the bit of alcohol in the coffee. It was a treat that he wouldn’t indulge himself. The Balvenie had been a present from Sherlock for his birthday the previous year. It had been aged for fourteen years. Even the past year felt like an eternity, not even thinking about everything that had happened in the last fourteen. His back straightened as he looked into the coffee cup before finally looking up again.

Mycroft’s gaze was intense on Greg, though he wasn’t focused on the man in front of him and he didn’t consciously see the inspector blowing hard on his coffee as if to cool it. So too did Mycroft inhale, mirroring blowing on the coffee even as his thoughts swirled like the coffee. Greg had a key, Greg knew all about Sherlock and his many misdeeds and misjudgments, and Greg hadn’t been angry when he’d explained about Eurus. But, the voice in the back of Mycroft’s head was screaming to run.

To run from the pain, the discomfort, the anxiety—both at being so open and so vulnerable. A squeeze on his free hand brought Mycroft back to the focus of reality from inside his head. Mycroft’s eyebrows furrowed deeply as he found Greg staring intently at him again.

“What?”

Again, a flare of exasperation blazed as Mycroft watched Greg size him up like a suspect in the interrogation room, even as the man rubbed a thumb reassuringly over the back of his hand. It felt wrong to be so open and vulnerable to another person. “I’ll keep tellin’ you ‘you’re human’ until you believe me, _love_.”

In response, Mycroft turned his hand to capture Greg’s thumb with his own, so as to stop the motion. “I am perfectly aware of that, _dear_.”

“Then you can’t close yourself off from me.” Mycroft bit the inside of his cheek, tension swelling to the forefront of his feelings in his chest when the detective inspector easily pulled his hand free of Mycroft’s tight grasp with a pointed look between Mycroft and their hands as he did. “We’ve known each other for ten years by now, and Christ—if Sherlock high doesn’t even phase me anymore, your… migraines aren’t neither.”

“There’s no reason that you need be bothered—“

“I _want_ to be bothered. Do you even remember last night?”

His lip curling a bit in the beginnings of a nasty sneer, Mycroft half-heartedly glared at Greg before he looked unhappily back at his breakfast cooling in front of him. His stomach burned at the sight of food all of the sudden. Mycroft set down his fork before tightening his robe unconsciously, pressing his lips together in a firm line and not responding to the question.

“You dozed, seemed a bit better—dozed again.” Greg paused a moment to grab a strawberry straight out of the bowl and eat it. “Then you were up in the night, keening and moaning like a man possessed ‘til I rolled over to try and comfort you. Then you tried to act like nothing was wrong, even if you were sweating buckets with just a sheet over you. When you finally went back to sleep, kept waking me up to kicks with your thrashing.”

The line of Mycroft’s lips almost disappeared as he was pressing his lips together tightly in an attempt not to grimace. He could feel the sweat on the back of his neck and his exposed chest from the light breeze, adding evermore to his anxiety as Greg kept talking.

“Next time I woke up was when you w’re in the bathroom puking your guts out.” Greg took another bite of his breakfast, acting like it was perfectly normal table conversation. “You looked like a kicked pup by that point, and you wouldn’t look at me. You kept muttering about being over-hot and pleading—I’d say begging if it wasn’t you—me to stop before I could even put a kind hand to you. Finally, I got you back to bed and begged off from work, and you were clinging to me and shivering like—”

“Stop, please.” Mycroft’s voice was tight and scratchy, his head still bowed. He didn’t look up until after they had just sat in silence for a moment, as it gave him time to let his mask fall back into place. “Let’s just put it in the past and move on.” His mouth crooked up in a fake, simpering smile. “There’s naught to be done on it, and dwelling on it simply makes much of nothing.”

This time Greg simply laid his hand on top of the one Mycroft had left atop the table for a moment before reaching for his coffee. “It’s not nothing, but you’re right not to dwell on it. No need to waste energy worrying about something like that. I’m just not going t’let you go through it alone. Now, back to breakfast, eh?”

Mycroft’s heart pounded loudly again his ears, but for a different reason this time. A surge of affection shot through him rather than a pang of anxiety, though he was still discomfited by the thought of vulnerability. It hadn’t been the end of the world, and Greg hadn’t been angry about burdening him with something so… trivial seeming. It was something that needed not be shared, but Mycroft’s heart pounded at the thought that his partner was willing.

“I…” Suddenly, Mycroft’s tongue felt too large to talk around, and his mouth was dry. He tried to soothe it with a sip of coffee, but it was hard to swallow around the lump in his throat. Again, his heart was pounding in his ears, and a trickle of cold sweat ran down the back of his neck.

Greg looked oddly at him as he cut off a piece from his much-ignored French toast. “Hmm? Is something wrong?”

“Ah, hmm…” The pounding of Mycroft’s own heart grew even louder in his ears, and for a moment all he could focus on was his heart. For all the hard words and platitudes that he gave Sherlock about caring, Mycroft knew that was a show of bravado done in an attempt to shield both the Holmes brothers from further pain. They were men of logic, not of emotion.

But this was something that he had wanted, craved even, but had denied himself for so long as an impossible dream. Some of the anxiety calmed as he pulled his thoughts back together into a cohesive thought, and the pounding of his heart receded from his ears.

Mycroft’s voice was hesitant and thick when he finally spoke. “I believe that I lo—“ the growing warmth in Greg’s brown eyes kept him stumbling through the words. “I love you.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

Greg’s mouth stopped mid-bite before gulping down the food in shock even as a mad grin grew upon his face as the words sank in. “Mycroft, love, you know I love you too.”

After a moment of staring at Mycroft’s incredulous face, Greg laughed. “You know we sound like an old married couple—all spice and sap in one.”

Mycroft was at a loss for words, but the exposed and genuine smile on his face told Greg everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oi vey. Sorry it took so long! Been working a lot, feeling horrid, and looking for a new place to live. And this chapter was horribly difficult to edit. So, this has been through the editing track multiple times at this point, and I'm just glad it's done. Don't think I've ever actually written a coherent story this long before, much less one people actually want to read.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me guys! Let me know what you think!


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